And such has been the result. Go where you will throughout the Atlantic states, or even through the states of the West, you will find a certain sentiment of interest attached to the name of the “Crescent City;” and no one talks of it with indifference. The young Kentuckian, who has not yet been “down the river,” looks forward with pleasant anticipation to the hour, when he may indulge in a visit to that place of infinite luxury and pleasure—the Mecca of the Western world.
The growth of New Orleans has been rapid, almost beyond parallel—that is, dating from the day it became a republican city. Up to that time its history is scarcely worth recording.
Sixty years have witnessed its increase from a village of 10,000—of little trade and less importance—to a grand commercial city, numbering a population of 200,000 souls. And this in the teeth of a pestilential epidemic, that annually robs it of its thousands of inhabitants.
But for the drawback of climate, New Orleans would, ere this, have rivalled New York; but it looks forward to a still grander future. Its people believe it destined to become the metropolis of the world; and in view of its peculiar position, there is no great presumption in the prophecy.
New Orleans is not looked upon as a provincial city—it never was one. It is a true metropolis, and ever has been, from the time when it was the head-quarters and commercial depot of the gulf pirates, to the present hour.
Its manners and customs are its own; its fashions are original, or, if borrowed, it is from the Boulevards, not from Broadway. The latest coiffure of a Parisian belle, the cut of a coat, or the shape of a hat, will make its appearance upon the streets of New Orleans, earlier than on those of New York—notwithstanding the advantage which the latter has in Atlantic steamers: and, what is more, the coat and hat of the New Orleanois will be of better fabric, and costlier materials, than that of the New Yorker. The Creole cares little for expense: he clothes himself in the best—the finest linen that loom can produce; the finest cloth that can be fabricated. Hats are worn costing twenty-five dollars apiece; and the bills of a tailor of the Rue Royale would astonish even a customer of Stultz. I have myself some recollection of a twelve guinea coat, made me by one of these Transatlantic artists; but I remember also that it was a coat.
New Orleans, then, may fairly claim to be considered a metropolis; and, among its many titles there is one which it enjoys par excellence, that is, in being the head-quarters of the duello. In no other part of America, nor haply in the world either, are there so many personal encounters—nowhere is the sword so often drawn, or the pistol aimed, in single combat, as among the fiery spirits of the “Crescent City.” Scarcely a week passes without an “affair;” and too often, through the sombre forest of Pontchartrain, borne upon the still morning air, may be heard the quick responsive detonations that betoken a hostile meeting—perhaps the last moments of some noble but misguided youth.
I have said that nearly every week witnesses such a scene—I am writing of the present. Were I to speak of the past, I should have to make a slight alteration in my phraseology. Were I to use the phrase, “nearly every day,” it would not invalidate the truth of my assertion; and that of a period not yet twenty years gone by.
At that time a duel, or a street fight—one or the other—was a diurnal occurrence: and the notoriety of either ended almost with the hour in which it came off.
It was difficult for a man of spirit to keep his hand clear of these embroglios; and even elderly respectable men—men, married and with grown-up families—were not exempted from duelling, but were expected to turn out and fight, if but the slightest insult were offered them.